The Boy and the Little Girl
by incisron
Summary: This story was based off of a film called "The Boy and the King" that I loved as a little girl. A young man was executed by the king of his country because of his faith, and those who followed him were burnt to death. This story takes place afterwards. Contains spanking.


This story was based off of a film called "The Boy and the King" that I loved as a little girl. A young man was executed by the king of his country because of his faith, and those who followed him were burnt to death. This story takes place afterwards.

Dusk was falling. The sky was an expanse of clear white pigment, tinted with blue,powdered all throughout with lavender, and all along the horizon were strewn the thickest and heaviest of clouds.  
And the young man stood there, only yards off from the cluster of shrubs behind which, by crouching, the little girl concealed herself -  
he stood there, in the mid of that valley, waist-deep in lush, dark green grass, surrounded by a patchwork of blooming color. Daffodils, nearly as large as the palms of his hands, snow-white in color; tulips, only a few shades darker than the blue of the sky - but the boy stood there, a single rose poised within his hand, its slender stem bent by the weight of its dark red bloom. And, as he lifted it to his face, teardrops of dew sifted from its petals.  
He was, as always, garbed in that plain, sand-yellow garment, with the belt of off-white cloth wound about his torso. Those thick dark locks, curling behind his ears, hanging past the nape of his neck; those large, clear, olive-green eyes, still resting upon the rose that he held.

He cast them down, now, and, lifting the rose, buried the tip of his nose into its petals. He inhaled deeply.  
And the child stood there, watching, transfixed, scarcely realizing that she had stepped forward and had left the concealment of the  
shrubbery. Who could have decided which was more beautiful - the rose, or the sight of the boy who held it about the stem?  
At length, he opened his eyes, once more, and gazed upon the flower.  
And, as he took it in, a small smile formed upon his lips.

"Who, " he inquired of the flower, "could be your Creator? He Whose Hands  
might craft such loveliness msut be unlike any other."The powerless Narsiss - Cinatis's sorcery. Who - but HE - could create even one flower is this entire valley?"  
A silence fell over the said valley, here, and he turned to face the sun - sinking at the line of the horizon, where softened blue light was slowly gathering, deepening, preparing to morph dusk into nightfall - stood there, arms spread wide, as it seemed, to receive all ecstasy and joy.  
He had woken not long before - hours after the child had woken, though she had lain there for a long time, wide awake, but scarcely daring to open her eyes or to gaze about, till now.  
But this - the falling of dusk - was only a preparation, a siesta of sorts, for within a handful of hours - slow-moving, softly-stepping, dew-perfumed hours -  
the sun would rise, and would mark the opening of all delights. Groggy hearts would rouse themselves, and, only then, would feast in full.  
The silence stretched on, uninterrupted, except for the sound of thumping. The pounding of a  
spring or waterfall, perhaps - or, perhaps, the plodding footsteps of the many, many weary spirits who were coming to join them., the All  
Observing Eyes bringing up their rear.  
They would collapse upon the ground, as all the others did, and sleep, until they were woken by the warmth of a sunrise that was far more beautiful than any that they had seen on earth.  
The child did not realize that, inadvertently, she had stepped out and had placed herself into view, till the boy addressed her.  
"Why have you come here? "  
She looked up, startled, and found that those large, unmoving eyes were fixed upon her.

"You are so young. What has brought you here? "

When the child, dumbfounded, gave no reply, he took a step forward - a small, almost imperceptible movement - and, after a moment of hesitation, held out his hand.  
Still the child did not budge. Another hesitation - and the boy lowered himself onto the carpet of grass, and sat, crosslegged. He did not withdraw his hand, even for a moment.  
The child came forward, step by timorous step, and, when she reached him, without quite knowing why, caught hold of his still-extended arm, and, staggering a little, clung to it for support.  
There was no response, either bodily or vocally - no noise or gesture of repulsion or rebuff. If the child entertained any fears of having acted wrongly, she did not make them apparent in any way, but tightened her hold upon his arm - a tightness of dogged, unthinking desperation.  
Then - she felt the warmth of a hand, rough as the sandpaper from which it took its color, and bony, delicate fingers, resting, outspread, upon her forehead. His thumb played along the foremost lock of her hair.  
"It was King Narsiss," she whispered. She could not feel certain that he had heard her; she did not want to speak again.  
The boy lifted her, set her away from him, so that he could peer into her face. His own face seemed to have frozen - misted over by a horrified pallor.  
The child reached over, and immediately - perhaps without intending to - he moved away, pulling his arm out of reach.  
"The others are. . .safe. " Her voice was tiny. "They all. . .believed in God. Noone turned back. They're. . .coming to join us."  
The boy had turned his attention to the paling horizon. But, slowly, his arm relaxed, lowered itself, returned to his side.  
The child took his hand, and he allowed it to dangle between hers. She tugged a little, but the boy did not stir or flinch. It might well have been detached from the rest of his body.  
Quietly, he said, "God return them to us! "

* * *  
All throughout the night, the weight of silence rested over that valley.

Seldom did the boy break the silence, except with his prayers, and these were whispered. And the child never dared to break it at all. They had said all that could be said. The boy would never give voice to his fears - the fears that could be seen  
plainly upon his face - and thus, the child had not the courage to speak of hers.

She knew that they harboured the same fears, and yet, as he never looked into her face - in her direction, even, or at anything, save for  
the horizon - she could never have told whether he knew this.  
On and on the night crept, and on and on the child's fears raced, an endless, self-repeating circle, a relentlessly pounding tattoo.

Gradually, oh, so gradually, the sounds of another, very real pounding  
trickled into her consciousness. She clung to the hope that she had imagined it, just as she wrangled with the fear of that same possibilty. The falling of footsteps? The crashing of a distant  
spring's water against the earth? Or the hands of men, women and children - clenched in agony, beating a helpless, hopeless plea against the underbelly of the ground?  
But they had given themselves for the sake of God. They had given up all that they could give - their lives, and all that had adorned them, scant or plentiful - so that the word of God might live. If they had  
done all this, seeking His Face, why should they not be admitted into this valley, just as she had? Why? What crime could they have committed  
\- what wrong could they have perpetrated that was so dreadful as to outweigh all that they had suffered in that fiery trench - so dreadful as to merit yet another sentence, in another, far hotter Pit - a  
sentence that would never end?  
The stabs of fear dulled, replaced by a flood of anger - feverishly hot, weakening anger. She could not thrash about, wreck the shrubbery, tear at the beautiful flowers. She could not rave or scream; she must not shout out, blaspheming God. And theboy prayed on, rising, falling, kneeling, lifting his hands, aware of nothing and noone, it seemed, save for himself and his Creator.

With his downcast eyes, his face, devoid of all expression, he was very much as he had been on the day that the soldiers had been leading him  
off to the mountain, to be thrown from its top - leading him away from the gathering of villagers who had been powerless to rescue him, armed and numerous as they had been, without endangering him, for he had been closely surrounded and threatened by spears. On that day, except for  
the presence of God, he might as well have been completely alone.  
And, as quickly as it had flared, the child's anger faded away, and the fears returned to fill her chest with spears.  
Why. . .why? If she was that her people would come to join her, as she had been admonished to, why were they so, very long in  
coming?  
Dawn broke. For some time, the sun hovered, wan and white against a grey, paper-crisp sky, concealing itself behind a curtain of mist.  
The boy had given up praying, at last, had retreated from his spot, to sink, exhausted, against the ground and into slumber.  
And the sun continued to climb, till, gradually, it broke through the mist, with spiraling ribbons of scarlet and lavender light.  
The child pushed herself upright, into the sitting position. She wiped her hand upon the hem of her garment, though it was of no benefit - after a night of contact with the soil and grass, the fabric was as as  
her palm was gritty . She lifted her hand, then, to cup her cheek, hoping to iron the chill away. Only then did she realize that her face was sodden. She had been crying without sobs.

Slowly, stiffly, she rose, pushing herself, with difficulty, up on unsteady, shaking legs.  
She turned to face the glare of the sun, and, almost mechanically - without pausing for another moment of thought - began to walk.

With each plodding step, she felt the crushing of damp grass, the prickling of matted roots and soil beneath her feet; she paid no heed to the discomfort.  
She trudged on, setting one foot before the other, and the last before the first, again and again. Away from the slumbering youth, from the mingled sounds of soft, slow, heavy breathing and the far-off drumming that spoke of footsteps, of pouring streams or of horrors.  
The boy did not start or stir, even once, though, for a few heart-lurching moments, the child had feared that he would.  
But there was nothing to fear - she scoffed at herself - and it was just as well that he heard nothing. It was just as well that he did not wake. And, by walking - setting one foot before the other, never tearing her eyes from the horizon - before long, perhaps, this silent, empty valley would be far behind her.

* * *  
The little girl might have travelled for hours, or for half an hour - she could not have told. She had never halted to glance at the sun, to determine its position - though she could feel its heat upon the nape of her neck, streaming with perspiration, and its glare had lent a coal-red glow to the undersides of her eyelids - nor had she rested, even once, despite the growing dryness of her throat.  
Yet, for all that she might have gone on for any amount of time, the thudding had not grown fainter with the distance. In fact, it seemed to have grown louder, heavier, and had fallen into a drumlike pattern.  
At last, the child could walk no further, and she sank to the ground. She rested her head upon the curve of her arm, and lay there, watching as blotches of color drifted against the background of her vision, allowing her thin little body to be baked by the sun.  
She might have prayed for a spring, a stream, or a puddle of water, even, if she had dared. She had been naughty, and she was aware of the fact, though she could not put a finger on the manner of the naughtiness. She had been bad - defiant - petulant, somehow.

An insect darted past, pausing to nip her leg. She bolted upright, crying out, and began to scratch vigorously at the welt that had risen. Tears rose to the backs of her eyes, prodded at the unhappy knot in her throat; but, even if she had had any desire to succumb to them, her body was far too exhausted, heat-weakened and feverish for sobs. Despite her weariness, she forced herself to sit, knees drawn up to her chest, an effort to afford herself some protection from any other winged creatures.  
A heavy thud shattered the silence of the area. The little girl, startled and shaken, to her feet, painful though it was.

And there, headed towards her, half-stumbling over the gnarled roots and stones that lay in his pathway, was the boy.  
Noone could have told which of the two was quicker to reach the other.  
Kneeling, the boy gathered her up and into his arms, just as she flung her own arms about his neck, surrendering herself to the warmth of his body.  
She was held in this manner for some time. At length, the boy lifted himself, and hoisted his small charge, onto one knee. Against her wishes, she found herself staring up into those olive-green eyes.  
He placed his hand upon her brow, lending her its coolness. He dabbed at the perspiration and the grains of sand that coated her skin.  
"Why did you leave? Why did you roam so far? "  
The little girl gave no reply - she could not have offered one if she had wished to. An jumble of emotions crowded her, from the pit of her stomach to the base of her throat - emotions that could not be compressed, forced into words or sentences.  
The boy's face, hovering above her, became a blur. Pinpricks of light began to fill it, obscure it, then. But she felt only a stab of panic, bewilderment, before the object of her fear vanished completely, and the earth slid out from beneath her and floated away.

The child regained consciousness, to find that her head had been laid, cheek-first, upon a cushioning patch of dewy grass.  
There was a damp coolness clinging to her skin, and along the walls of her throat. As she struggled to sit, she touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue; it was cool and wet, as well, and a drop of water clung to it. She had been given a drink, somehow.  
The touch of a breeze, and the sounds of rustling, leaf-laden branches, made her aware of the treetops overhead, each inclined toward the other, limbs entwined, as if they were the hands of lovers, and providing her with shade.  
Noon had not drawn to a close; the sun had not budged from its peak; and yet she stood, once more, in this valley, surrounded by flowery fields - the valley from which she had been trying to flee, as it had seemed, for the better part of the morning.  
Had she been transported by a fairy, or an angel - some magical creature who had shown kindness to her, a naughty, foolish little girl, only for the praying boy's sake?  
The boy approached her now. He came to stand beside her, and, after a hesitation, knelt down so that he could address her. She hadn't enough courage to tear her gaze from his, though he did nothing to ensure that she held it.  
"My little one. . .you know that you acted wrongly. It was unsafe for you to wander away from me. What made you do what you did? "  
The child toyed with a heap of pebbles that were lying near her foot.  
"I. . .didn't know that I. . ."  
Beneath the scrutiny of those eyes, she fumbled for some excuse or justification, anything that would alleviate her sense of shame, or soften the implications of her crime, somehow. But from the beginning, had she not understood, even vaguely, that she had been acting wrongly? And yet, how could she have acted in any other way?  
"I didn't. . .know that it was. . .dangerous." This, at least, was true. She had longed to trudge on, without pausing, till she had walked off of the edge of existence. But it had never occurred to her to think of blistering heat, faintness, and thirst.  
"We're in. . .heaven," she insisted, timidly. "I didn't. . .think that . . .wandering was. . .naughty. "  
She knew, even as the words left her, that they were silly.  
The boy spread his hands. "Why, then, did you run off when I was sleeping? Was it not because you were afraid that I would prevent you? "  
The child had nothing to say in her own defense. Gently, the boy placed his hands upon her shoulders.  
"Honey, you know well that I would never have allowed you to wander off as you did. You knew that your duty was to remain at my side until the return of our people, and you were disobedient. "  
A shudder overtook her body - one that was so slight as to be imperceptible to the eye, though the boy, because his hands were resting upon her, felt the tremor.  
He studied her face, and seemed to read her expression, to find something in it that troubled him. His own expression underwent some change that she could not comprehend, and, unexpectedly, he caught her up into a brief, tight embrace.  
"All right - no more scolding." He released her, then, and, sitting backwards, held out his hand. "You are a big girl, and you understand, better than I do, the wrongness of what you did. Come now - lie down across my lap."

The little girl froze, for she understood the purpose of this command.  
She lingered for some time, transfixed, gazing up into the boys face. That face bore a sort of gentle, inscrutable sweetness. The child did not budge, and neither did his expression. He did not repeat his request.  
The child stepped forward, slowly, stiffly. When he lifted his hand, brought it up behind her, she believed, at first, that he would begin the smacking without waiting for her to assume the requested position - or that he intended to force her into position with his own hands - and she flinched visibly.  
But, a moment later, the hand came to rest upon her back.  
"Come now, my little one, " he prompted gently.  
The child stooped low, and paused, wavering awkwardly on tiptoe. At last, she lowered herself, placing her quivering little body, stomach-first, across his lap.

She lay there, her midsection resting upon his lap, pressed against the soft pool of fabric that was his garment. He had ordered her to lie there, and she had done so, when she might have turned and fled - from him, from the valley, just as she had earlier.  
She had gazed up into that gentle face, completely devoid of anger, or even exasperation at her apparent unwillingness to obey. And . . . she had obeyed him.  
After she had taken this plunge, how could she cling to senseless fear? She felt his arm, curving about her back, forming a warming, comforting circle, and she knew that she could only draw assurance from that look upon his face - though he would smack her with his large hands, he would never, ever harm her with them.  
The boy began to pass his free hand over her back, in slow, soothing circles. She began to relax, as, bit by bit, he ironed the chill and the tension away.  
"Sweetness, why am I going to smack you? "  
The little girl tensed at the word "smack." She had known that he intended to smack her; and yet, the sound of the word tightened her stomach.  
"Why am I going to punish you? "  
When the child offered no reply, he shifted his hand, from the small of her back to the nape of her neck, and began to stroke gently.  
"My baby, I know that you can hear me. Tell me all that befell you when you ran away from the valley."  
Of a sudden, the air seemed to become humid, nauseatingly heavy; her throat capsized, and her stomach sank as if a boulder sat upon it. Little pinpricks of pain began to glance off of the inner walls of her skull.  
She attempted to put a hand back, convinced that she had been bitten by an ant or some other insect.  
But a larger hand intercepted hers, folded it into a fist, and enclosed the fist with its own fingers, restraining her.  
"My baby, you must lie still."  
The child struggled to obey, to lock her legs into place, to resist the urge to kick. And the tears began to gather, against her will.  
"You ran off while I slept, knowing that you were doing a naughty thing. You wandered until you were exhausted, and could go no further. By this time, you were in the mid of a barren land, with no water, no trees to shade you from the heat of the sun. You became so ill and faint that, only moments after I found you, you fell senseless."  
After a moment, the little girl nodded, wordlessly, meekly. The boy released her hand.  
"And when I spoke to you, you tried to deny that what you did was naughty."  
Another tearful nod.  
"My baby, what made you do what you did? "  
The little girl bit her lip.  
"I. . ."  
The boy fitted his arm more snugly about her back.  
"What is it, sweetness? Will you tell me? "  
"I. . . I. . .was. . .sad. . ."  
It was a pitiful thing to say, and a gross understatement.  
"You did all of this - only because you were sad?"  
The child buried her face into the grass, and refused to respond.  
"You lay in the sun, against the burning sand, till you became feverish and your ankles were coated with mosquito bites. You must have been very, very sad."  
"Very, very sad" - at this, the tears flowed faster.  
"And angry? Was my baby angry? "  
There was no reply.  
The boy touched her cheek. How cool his hand felt. Yes, she lived, and she breathed, if tearfully, shudderingly, and the barren, lonely land, with its numbing, deadening heat, was far behind her.  
"A little? Were you a little angry? "  
A hesitation, and a small nod.  
"You might have been very, very angry? "  
The little girl said nothing.

"Sweetness . . .you have nothing to fear. You were a naughty girl this morning, but you did nothing wrong by feeling very, very angry."  
Leaning forward, he kissed the crown of her head.  
"My little one, do you know that I love you, very much? "  
"Yes. . ." Her voice was tiny, muffled.  
Yes - she knew now. She felt it so deeply that it pained her to remember that, only hours ago, she had felt differently. She had been "very, very angry" and "very, very sad," so much so that she had done something so naughty, so dangerous, all in an effort to escape the one who said that he loved her.  
"And can you understand that, although you were hurting inside, I cannot allow you to hurt yourself - outwardly or inwardly? And that when I woke to find you gone, it frightened me badly? "  
The well of emotions overflowed, and the child broke into quiet crying. With each little gasping sob, she shook against him.  
Before she was aware of it, the boy's hand was upon the nape of her neck, stroking the overhanging curls, soothing, caressing.  
"Shhhhhhh. . .my baby. Come now. . .big girl. . .that's my sweet little one. Tell me why your actions were naughty, and soon all of this will be over."  
"Soon all of this will be over" - such a beautiful promise. The little girl grasped for it, even as she struggled to dam her crying, struggled to speak.

"It was. . .dangerous."  
Yes - it had been dangerous - "Heaven" excuses notwithstanding. And a part of her soul had known this, the little girl realized, as she had fled the serene, shady, flower-filled valley - for no spirit that was overwhelmed with pain, saddened by all that spoke of joy, guided its owner to anything that was tranquil or safe. She had thrown herself, head-first, at the dangers that lay outside of this valley, because, without knowing at the time, she had wished to destroy herself.  
The boy removed his arm from her back, and his other hand from her hair, so that he could gather the damp, perspiration-soaked folds of her garment, and peel them from her skin.  
The cool air engulfed her, from waist to foot; the boy wrapped his arm, once again, about her lower back, just below the heap of rumpled garment.  
His hand rose - the all-too-familiar gust of wind struck the child's skin- and landed, with a firm clap. The child lurched forward and screamed, in startlement and pain. She began to shake uncontrollably, and the tears sprang up once again.  
The boy's hand cracked across her bottom, and repeated itself, over and over, and the little girl felt as if she could not withstand the pain. Her cries became louder.  
Now the smacking was paused.

"I am very - angry with you!" It was obvious, to the little girl, that these words were spoken with some difficulty, and there was a tremor in his voice that, slight though it was, seemed to belie his claim to anger. It was as if something within him was struggling to break forth, straining against its bonds. Something within him was shattering.  
He clenched his teeth, and, with the fierceness of his smacks, compensated for all that had been lacking in his tone of voice. The child cried out, writhing and kicking helplessly.  
For several seconds, the boy slapped repeatedly, without a word. When he had delivered around ten or a dozen smacks or so, he paused again.  
"I will always love you, my baby. I know that it hurts, and it pains me to hurt my little one. But when you disobey and place yourself into danger, and afterwards, behave like a stubborn girl when I speak to you, you force me to punish you."  
"I know that it hurts -" the child heard all that he said, but these were the words that entered her heart, an already-overflowing vessel of feelings, and caused it to pour.  
He knew that it hurt - knew of the sadness and the loneliness that lay, knotted up and throbbing, roiling, within her. And he knew, after all, of the flesh-devouring flames, the moaning, weeping, soot-faced people, the pleas for mercy, the cries for help - all of the horrors that dwelled upon the island of her imagination and refused to perish, or to rest, even for a moment.  
Her sobs became louder, more violent.  
The boy slipped his arm beneath her belly, locked it about her waist, and lifted her, placing her, once more, across his lap, pulling her closer to himself.  
He resumed the spanking, with slow, firm smacks, and scolded her, at intervals - spoke of love, and of the dangers of wandering away. He spoke, sometimes, of God, and of their people. And, all throughout the smacking, he promised her, again and again, that the pain would come to an end before long.  
The spanks would cease, the tears would dry of their own accord, and her heart would huddle up, cold and quivering, eager to be warmed, caressed and comforted. The pain would come to an end, and all would be forgotten.  
". . . My little one, I will never, ever allow to disobey me again. Have I commanded you to do something that was dangerous? . . . Have I commanded you to do something that was naughty? . . . No, I would never intentionally endanger you, or lead you to behave badly. I am only here to care for you, my baby, and for all of the people who follow me." Here, his voice seemed to crack, and the child could sense that the shatter line was deepening. And yet he carried on: "Will you disobey me ever again?. . . Will my baby act foolishly and dangerously again? . . . Good girl. . . good sweetheart. Behave as my sweet little one."

By this time, though the little girl did not realise it, she was no longer writhing, kicking or flailing about. She lay motionless across his lap, huddled against him, enveloped within the warmth of his single-armed embrace. The tears had ceased, as well; or, if they had not receded altogether, they stood as still as her body lay, pooled beneath her eyelids. Some time elapsed before she came to realize that the pain itself had ceased to exist. Yes, the smacks fell steadily, unceasingly, and as firmly as before; but the fiery sting that had accompanied them not long before, had dulled, seemingly, and she felt the spanking as she might feel the strained, faltering blows exchanged in brawls that took place in dreams. Her forehead was resting upon the ground, and as she breathed - slow, shuddering breaths - she listened to the low, heavy, drumlike beat of her heart, an oddly soothing sound.  
All of the grief, all of the tension, the fear, the weariness, had converged, becoming a knot, and somewhere between her burning bottom and the pit of her stomach, that knot had settled. Unbeknownst to her companion, the little girl, curled up within the crook of his arm, had slipped into a restfulness that she seldom felt, except in slumber, and only that knot - aching, throbbing, crying out for release - was there to make it incomplete.  
Without warning, the smacking came to an abrupt halt.  
The boy lifted the child, shifted her, so that he could untie and remove one of his sandals. He did all of this clumsily, unsteadily, as his fingers were quivering badly. Even so, the child did not budge.  
The boy regarded the limp, pitiful little figure, lying there, silent and unresponsive. Her face was white, sticky with dried tears, sodden with those that had not yet dried.  
Only when the boy slipped his arm beneath her, lifting her up and off of his lap, did she stir. Any vocal response - a sniffle, the faintest of whimpers - would have gladdened him.  
Leaning in, he kissed her cheek.  
"I am moving you only to make you more comfortable, my baby," he whispered. "Do you understand? "  
The little head nodded, after several moments. The boy studied her bottom. There was not an inch of that skin that had not been smacked; not an inch of its surface that had not been flooded with heat and bright redness; not a single patch of fresh, white skin that could be surprised with spanks. Had he thrashed her to numbness?  
Or, perhaps, he had not smacked the sensation out of this tiny bottom, but had smacked all hope of mercy, all hope of an end to the punishment, out of her heart. If it was so, why would she trouble herself with crying out, struggling, or pleading with him?  
"I'm going to spank you with my sandal, my baby. Then it will be over. "  
Now the child broke into whimpers.  
"I know, my little one," the boy whispered. "I know that this causes you pain. I know. But you must never forget that I love you, more than you know. I would never, ever wish to harm you or to grieve you."  
Slowly, carefully, inch by inch, he lowered the stiff little body, and as he did so, he lifted one knee and brought her to rest, stomach-first, across his thigh. With an arm about the waist, he secured her, so that her abdomen and her knees hugged his leg, and she was not left to dangle uncomfortably.  
He took up the sandal - a large, thick oval of worn leather - and adjusted it so that he gripped it by the strings.  
"I'm going to give you twenty smacks. I know that its a big number, but my baby is a big girl, and before long it will be over. Big breaths. . .good girl. . .good sweetheart. "  
The sandal rose, reared back by a few inches, and the claps began. They were given swiftly, and were not particularly forceful - far lighter than the strokes that had been delivered by hand - but they fell upon swollen, tender skin. The child began to squirm, to cry out, even, in little, gasping whimpers of pain. But the spanks continued, rapid and successive, without pausing or allowing for torturous intervals. And, after several seconds, the little girl began to cry quietly.  
As swiftly as it had begun, the smacking ended. The boy tossed the sandal aside, without troubling to return it to his foot. He lifted the crying, trembling girl up and into his arms, and held her close, cradling her tenderly, alternately kissing her hair and her tear-stained cheeks.  
"Sshhhhhh. . .my baby . . .my pretty little flower. I love you, and I only wish to keep you safe. Safe from harm, safe from anything that might grieve you."  
Here his voice broke. He seated her upon his lap, wrapped his arms about her, and bowed his head, concealing his face.  
For a moment, there was only silence. The little girl lay there, nestled against him, her head propped upon his chest, allowing the tears to soak his garment.  
Then, she heard sounds - low, small, hoarse, much like the noises that a small child might make when he struggled against his own cries.

Without hesitating, the little girl freed herself, only so that she could fling her own arms about the boys neck. He caught her up, pulled her close, and buried his face into her hair, to muffle the sounds of his weeping.  
For a long while, they sat there, each clasping the other to himself.  
At last, the boy seemed to gain a grip upon his weeping. When he released a heavy, shuddering sigh, the little girl knew that he had become calmer.  
He drew her away, and set her backwards. His eyes glistened with wetness, and the whites were webbed from corner to corner with red.  
"Thank you, my baby," he whispered.  
He drew her close, and, once again, the child rested her head upon his shoulder. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the growing weight of her eyelids, and felt the stickiness of wet lashes, clinging to the crests of her cheeks.  
The boy passed a hand over her head.  
"I love you, my baby - my precious, sweet, good little one. Do you understand that I believe you are a good girl? "  
She nodded, drowsily.  
"That's my good baby. I expect that you will behave as my sweet girl. Will you promise to behave well for me? "  
Another, meeker nod. The boy kissed her forehead.  
"I love you, my sweetness, very much. Because of this, you must never disobey me again, unless you fear danger, or you know that I've commanded you to do something that is naughty. If you disobey me, without good cause, I will always love you and will never lash out in anger against you, but I will lay you across my lap and give you a spanking."  
The child gave a final sniffle.  
"Im. . .frightened. "  
The boy ran his fingers through her curls. "I know, my baby. I know," he murmured. "But I am here, and I will never allow those fears to overtake you."  
But these were no vague, lonely sepulchral fears, nor were they the fears that they had refused to speak of, but had known were present. This was very different.  
"I hear. . .thumping about. It sounds. . .as if someone is. . .moving about, but I only see you."  
The boy scooped her up, curving his arm about her bottom to bear up her weight. She flinched, but only a little, for the burning of her backside was not altogether unpleasant.  
"Its only the trickling of a spring, my baby," he said gently. "It is a nice, gentle sound, and was sent as a lullaby for you. Close your pretty eyes and sleep."  
The child did not close her eyes. How could she have? "It isn't . . .the water," she insisted, well aware of the possibility that she was violating their newly-declared code of obedience. "When I was in the. . .bad place, there was no water. . .nearby. . .and I heard the thumping there. And then. . . I saw you, coming to me."  
The boy gave her chin a playful touch. "Perhaps it is the pounding inside of your head. You are exhausted, my baby."  
"But it seemed so. . .far away. . .earlier. And now. . .it sounds as if its. . . near. . .as if someone is. . .drumming the ground with his fingers."  
This persuaded the boy to sit upright, without breaking the circle of his embrace. Several moments of silence followed - silence that he scarcely dared to break, even with his breathing.  
He seemed to be listening intently, and when the child parted her lips, he shushed her, almost fiercely, though she had only intended to inhale a little more deeply, not to speak.

And then, the silence was shattered, as suddenly and as sharply as the cracking of glass upon the ears of a deaf world.

" Obaid . . . . Obaid! Are you here? . . . Call to me, if you hear my voice!"

Though it was difficult for the little girl to recognize this voice, to pair it with its owner, the boy had no such trouble at all. Almost immediately he was upon his feet, and the flopping of leather soles drowned out all other sounds.

"Imsaac! Imsaac! I'm here! I'm coming!"

The little girl trailed after, step by tentative step. They rose into view, though, before she could walk much farther - a throng of people, seemingly endless in number, the tail of which could only be seen as a shadow, a blot of darkness against the horizon. Men, women, children and youth, stumbling along, all clad in garments of fabric that was as golden-white and as heavy as cream. And yet - every one of these faces shone with a light that was far brighter and more pristine than the color of their attire.

And, at the head of this throng, two men walked - one of whom the little girl recognized upon sight, as she had seen him in the company of the king many times, before his execution - the pudgy, round-eyed man who was known as Imsaac -, and another, an old, bearded man, tall, thin and dignified, whom she had never seen before this day. But she had heard much of him, she realized, when the boy rushed towards him, arms outstretched, and cried out to him with that old endearment.

"Sir . . Sir!"

The little girl could not have told whether the boy was the first to fling himself onto the old man, or whether it was the reverse. But, after many moments, the boy drew backwards, to meet a gaze that was as wet as his own.

The child stood nearby, watching as the boy freed one hand so that he could entwine it with that of Imsaac.

"God is the Greatest," the old man proclaimed. "Praise is to God, Who has delivered us all safely, and will end our journey safely, in a land of delight."

Here, the little girl piped up timorously.

"Sir?" - she emulated the boy's manner of address -"haven't we . . . ended our . . . journey already?"

The old man broke into a smile.

"No, my child. Many miles still lie ahead of us. But when we reach our destination, the people of our land who preceded us will come to greet us."

The boy knelt and lifted the little girl into his arms. By resting her chin upon his shoulder, peering over it, she could see the faces of the people, white, shining, without a blemish, a mark of exertion or a hint of perspiration.

"On dark, dreadful days, when you are feeling alone - feeling very, very sad, and very, very angry, you must rest your eyes upon the Face of God, and it is all the more important that you do so, my baby. And, if anger and despair prevent you from trusting in Him, you must never feel ashamed to confide in one who loves you.

"But when you flee from His Shade, and from the kindness of living creatures, you stray, and become lost, surrounding yourself with barrenness, bleakness, pain and fear."

The old man spoke quietly. "Will you lead us, my son?"  
A dampness rose to the boy's eyes, and yet, he smiled. He lifted an arm, and shouted, "Onward to Paradise!"

It was not long before they had left the valley behind, and had even passed through the hot, barren, mosquito-filled stretch without fear or any significant delay.

Late into the afternoon, however, the little girl grew weary, and sank into slumber, still nestled within the boy's arms, against his chest.

When she woke, night had fallen _ a velvet-blue, silver-clouded, moonlight-clear night. And the wind blew so that it filled her ears, caused her garment to billow about her, and no man or woman could hear himself or the speech of his neighbors.

They were crossing a colossal bridge or road - an enormous platform of polished stone or granite, white beneath the moonlight, and railed on either side with poles of stone, far taller and larger than the boy who carried her, or any of the adults who surrounded her.

She could feel the dip of the bridge's arc, over which the boy was climbing. She strained her eyes at the dark blue, glimmering expanse that lay below. Was it another bit of sky, or a river or sea?

Cupping her hands about her mouth, she shouted, hoping to be heard above the clamoring of the people.

"Obaid! Are we nearly there?"

The boy lifted a hand, and pointed, smiling, at what had appeared, at first glance, to be a star. Now the child could see that it was a rectangle of brightness- a doorway, filled with light.  
"Yes, my baby. We are nearly there."

( THE END)


End file.
